


Evenfall

by genevieve_serdaigle



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Voldemort Wins, Arranged Marriage, Don't say I didn't warn you, F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Mention of torture, NottGrass, Romance, Threats of Violence, Timeline What Timeline, and it's mature because it's dark, darker than what I usually write, dramione are kind of in the background, if there was then it would be rated explicit, kind of, not because there's sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-16
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-01-14 18:58:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18482365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/genevieve_serdaigle/pseuds/genevieve_serdaigle
Summary: 'Women love men for their defects'-	Oscar WildeLife is hard in post-war Wizarding Britain. With a power-hungry tyrant running the country, and unspeakable trauma lying beneath the surface, there is nothing Theodore Nott won't do to survive. Daphne Greengrass is his unlikely bride, and she must reconcile herself to love a man changed and brutalised by war. But when old ghosts come back to haunt them, will she remain at his side? As they say, better the devil you know...





	1. Prelude

BEFORE

To say that Mr Greengrass was surprised when Theodore Nott Jr. appeared at his door would not be entirely true. He was not the first Pureblood gentleman to visit the Greengrass Manor, nor would he be the last. It was known that the eldest Greengrass daughter was now of age and with political unrest ongoing, alliances were quickly being made.

It was peculiar in only one respect - the Nott family were not on the best of terms with the Greengrass family. No one quite knew why though the dislike was said to have originated with a financial dispute in the 1500s.

“Mr Nott?” Mr Greengrass frowned, quite understandably, but Mr Nott simply offered his hand, which Mr Greengrass shook bemusedly as a roll of parchment was placed on the desk between them.

        “I would like to make a proposal to join our two noble Houses. My father would see to this himself but unfortunately he is indisposed.”

This Mr Nott was concise, withdrawn, measured with his words. A little like his father.

Mr Greengrass put on his glasses and cast his eyes over the contract.

It was generous. The dowry was relatively small, the Nott fortune was large. It would be a sensible financial decision. He’d be foolish to turn it down.

“Why my daughter?”

        “I’m sorry sir,” Mr Nott looked at him with no decipherable expression on his face.

“With a fortune such as yours comes the privilege of choice. Why choose my daughter?”

        “I esteem your daughter to be good-natured and well-bred.”

“Hardly remarkable qualities.”

        “I disagree,” Mr Nott fixed him with piercing eyes. They were oddly compelling and decidedly different to his father’s. His mother had had eyes like that. He wondered for a moment if Mr Nott knew he bore her likeness. If this was why, perhaps, that Mr Nott Sr. rarely spoke of his son.

He hoped that this young man would be a better husband this his father. He seemed sensible and from what Mr Greengrass knew, quite detached from the Dark Lord’s following at Hogwarts. That could only be a good thing for his beloved Daphne. She deserved more than he had power to give her but in times such as these…

There were worse men than Theodore Nott, he supposed at last.

* * *

 

Daphne Greengrass.

An elegant (and eligible) lady. Of course her blood was pure as pure, not that he could have accepted anything less. _Only the best for a Nott_ , so his father always said. He wondered what his father would have said had he known his daughter-in-law would be a Greengrass. The thought made the society wedding worth the trouble.

The wedding was gaudy and tasteless, everything his father hated. She, however, was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. She seemed delicate from where he was standing, and still very young. They were both young. Not that that seemed to count for anything.

He watched her as she moved easily between guests, effortlessly making conversation. She was generous with her smiles, relaxed and everything he wasn’t. They were so different, and he felt certain this was what the guests were remarking upon as they cocked their heads in confusion at the unlikely union.

How could a lady like Daphne Greengrass marry a man like him?

But a lady like Daphne Greengrass was exactly the sort of lady he had to marry if he had ambitions to survive the war (and he did). He needed someone Pureblood, obviously, but also someone society would love – not caught up in unfortunate familial allegiances, someone sociable and charming who would say all the right things to the right people at the right time, someone who had a large network of connections, unfailingly polite…

Ladies like that were not in abundance, and thus were in high demand. He knew the Greengrass family had never been particularly adept at balancing finances, so he made an offer he knew they couldn’t afford to refuse. What self-respecting Pureblood family would take so little in dowry? Daphne Greengrass wasn’t without admirers, but unfortunately for her those admirers were also in search of greater fortune.

If things were different, he thought, he would do things properly. He would find a girl he esteemed, and he would court her until he was sure he liked her, then he would marry her and fall in love. If things were different, he wouldn’t care about blood purity, heirs, money, war, power – none of it.

What did this girl want? With her soft blonde hair and blue eyes, she was like a princess from a storybook. Was he to be her prince? Perhaps she didn’t want a prince. Perhaps she did. Daphne Greengrass was a stranger to him. Though everyone marries a stranger, don’t they?

He supposed that there were worse women than Daphne Greengrass.

* * *

 

When, all those years ago, young Theodore Nott had asked for her hand, she had been confused. Theodore Nott was just so aloof, so cold and so serious. Why on earth would he want to choose _her_ for his bride? She, who was talkative and warm and completely vacuous because everybody knows women ought not to concern themselves with _serious_ things, _for goodness sake Daphne put that book down, how am I ever to have grandchildren if you purposefully drive all the men away?_

Theodore Nott was rich – that was a fact. He was also ambitious and extremely clever. She admired that. She’d admired him – with his sharp edges and those eyes, there was something of a mystery about him. And mystery was something of an alluring quality, if the novels she most certainly did not entertain herself with were to be believed.

She’d been trained and coached up to this role all her life. She could organise dinner parties at the drop of a hat, knew every Ministry man (and woman) worth knowing, was incredibly well read (despite best efforts from her governess to make it otherwise), fluent in several languages, could play the piano, knew how to dance, and had impeccable manners. (One could hardly be a lady without such qualities, her mother had often remarked.)

Being A Wife (she had always imagined it capitalised) was the only worthwhile occupation, according to her mother. Her mother had married her father just a week after she came of age. He was not much older. Whilst they did not love each other, they remained in union with sweet indifference towards each other to this day.

Daphne, however, had fancifully yearned for more. She didn’t just want a Manor, she wanted a home. She didn’t just want a husband, she wanted a partner, a lover. She didn’t just want heirs, she wanted children. She wanted a family.

Now she laughed at the idea. In this world? There was little chance of that. She was lucky she wasn’t on the streets, forced to become some wretched courtesan for the Lords in the upper circle. _The Prophet_ served as a reminder for that. Living with a power-hungry acolyte of the Dark Lord in this essentially post-apocalyptic world may not be the fairy-tale she had envisioned, but there were worse men than Theodore Nott.

* * *

“A Mr Rowle for you, sir,” his servant said, bowing before leaving.

Theodore Nott Jr. looked up from his papers and eyed the man before him with distaste.

“Good evening, Lord Nott, sir.”

        “Good evening, Mr Rowle,” he drew out the man’s surname with an elongated drawl. Maybe this would be fun. “What can I do for you?”

“My family’s been loyal servants to the Dark Lord for generations, sir –”

        “Your service is most commendable.”

“Thank you, sir. Our blood is pure – I can assure you, sir, and we have united many ancient families over the years, sir, like my recent marriage to Miss Druella Blishwick –”

        “Congratulations, Mr Rowle, on your nuptials.”

“Thank you, sir. You see, sir, we’ve been in his Dark Lordship’s circle for many years –”

        “A coveted privilege, Mr Rowle.”

“It is, sir, which is why I’m asking for your Lordship’s assistance.”

Theo cocked his head to the side, contemplating Rowle. “What is it exactly that you want? And please, be succinct about it, I haven’t got all night.”

“Of course not, sir,” he replied hurriedly. “We would like our titles to reflect our position and privilege, sir and a word from you, sir –”

        “And why,” Theo said slowly, cutting him off, “would I help you?”

“I might have something you want, sir.”

        “Oh?” Theo raised an eyebrow.

* * *

 

Daphne was reading in the private drawing room. She liked it away from all the noise that Theo’s guests made. Some were his friends, no doubt, but Theo was a rather solitary man, always had been.

She often thought, rather sadly, that he never seemed to know how to talk to her, to be with her. He married her because he thought he had to, because she seemed the best option out of a very small selection of ‘suitable’ girls. He wasn’t trained in the ways of husbandry – she rather thought his father, in his mental state, had foregone to talk to Theo about that. He was however, a brilliant businessman and he was pragmatic, powerful now, too. She’d done well, she thought wryly, even if the cost was a brand on her husband’s arm and awful people at her dining table.

His way of dealing with her was to essentially avoid her at all costs, meeting her eyes awkwardly at dinner, smiling his irresistible smile when they brushed hands in the corridors of his loud, empty Manor.

There was a particularly loud cry from somewhere in the Manor and the abrupt end of said screaming. Daphne sighed, memories flashing before her eyes: Hogwarts. Final Battle. Astoria. Death Eaters. Green Light. She blinked ferociously, trying to banish it all to some dark corner in her mind.

She had always thought he was a good man, when she was younger – a flawed one, no doubt, but a good man. Now she thought there was no such thing.

But he kept her safe, didn’t he? He had given her financial security, a title, protection from the Death Eaters. That was worth it all, wasn’t it?

* * *

Theo sat at the head of the table. It was the first dinner they’d ever held at his Manor in the two weeks following their marriage.

His guests (a list compiled wordlessly by Daphne) were arranged with expert knowledge as to social standing and relations. He knew she was a proper lady, of course, she’d had that sort of upbringing, and he knew she was adept with this sort of thing. Completely tedious, really he didn’t know how anyone of any intelligence could stand it. Which was why initially he’d assumed she must be lacking in intelligence.

His wife, the silent and skilful master behind the whole thing, sat to his right. She was really quite beautiful, he thought, the kind of classical beautiful that inspires artists. But Theodore Nott was no artist.

She was talking to the man next to her and he felt an odd wave of _something_ , he wasn’t quite sure what. Was it curiosity? Jealousy, perhaps? Morgana knew why, he’d watched her talk to dull Ministry men a hundred times before at a hundred different dinners before this one, watched her nod and smile and offer them more wine if they were boring, more whiskey if they weren’t.

Maybe it was because she was talking about alchemy of all things, something he’d assumed she’d be too stupid to understand, let alone be able to give a comprehensive critical exposition about. Really, who on earth actually had opinions about morality in alchemy? He had thought, outside of organising dinner parties and unknowingly manipulating Ministry officials (something that came naturally to Slytherins), she wasn’t that bright. She hadn’t been qualified to do NEWT Potions… unless she had chosen not to study it, and had actually been perfectly qualified all along. He’d never asked, and he probably never would. She never spoke to him like that anyway – animatedly, as though she were genuinely interested and excited by the subject matter.

Why did this Ministry man get to see this side of her? Why not him?

He was intelligent. He knew about alchemy. And he was her husband, didn’t that count for anything? He didn’t know he was frowning until she brushed his hand with her own, a quiet gesture that meant, we’re in public, we have to keep up appearances, remember where you are and who you’re with. So he schooled his face and turned to smile at her, kissing her hand deliberately whilst the Ministry man pointedly looked away.

* * *

“It’s about an old friend of yours, sir, a Mr Malfoy,” Rowle said.

Theo looked up. “Mr Malfoy is dead.”

“Funny, isn’t it? I saw him just yesterday, sir, and yet they say you killed him.”

Theo narrowed his eyes. He knew a threat when he heard one. Rowle, seeing that he had his attention, began talking more slowly. He had always had a flair for dramatics.

“I was in Knockturn Alley, doing some business for the Dark Lord, he’d trusted me ’specially with it, sir. Well, I ran into Mr Malfoy, and I recognised him, sir. He didn’t see me, sir, I was careful. I followed him into The White Wyvern – you know that old pub near Markus Scarrs’, sir? I was about to leave sir, because I really needed to get this done for the Dark Lord, but then I heard a name that interested me greatly, the name of a certain rebel from the war, one that we thought was also dead.”

* * *

“Daphne,” he said softly, so as not to disturb her. His palms were sweaty, he shifted his weight from foot to foot. _Breathe, Nott, you’re a man aren’t you?_

She looked up from her book, her brow slightly creased from concentration. “Theodore?”

He winced. Theodore was his father’s name. Theodore was the name of a tyrant. _Get it together, Nott_.

“Would you play a song for me?” he asked. He’d rehearsed this many times before. Back and forth as he paced up and down his room.

“A song? We don’t have a piano…” she trailed off.

Of course, because his father hated music. Couldn’t stand it. _Stop that infernal racket, boy, I’ll not have that in my house –_

“I recalled that you played. It is your birthday, isn’t it?”

Daphne looked down at the necklace he’d already given her – something she doubted most Death Eater brides were wearing right now. Not all Death Eaters were as good as Theo, as resourceful. She looked at him then, a smile blooming on her face for the first time. The first genuine smile he’d received from her. It felt like tenderness. It ached.

He led her into the next room, the ballroom, and lifted a velvet cover to reveal the most delightful Grand Piano she’d ever seen. What she didn’t know then was that this piano had once belonged to Theo’s mother, that this piano was part of Theo’s foggy memories of his childhood, that his father could never bring himself to destroy it or throw it away. That this gift was so much more than a piano, it was a part of a history she didn’t yet understand. That by giving it to her, he was letting her in – or trying to.

She didn’t know that then, but she did know that Theo knew she liked music, and Theo knew that music made her smile. And that had to mean something, didn’t it?

So she sat down on the stool and hesitantly rested her fingers on the keys.

Her magic seemed to flow into the music, he’d thought, that first time he heard her play. It was enchanting and enthralling, watching her. She seemed at ease in a way he had never seen before, her eyelids softly closed, a faint smile on her lips. It seemed intimate, significant somehow.

And when she’d finished, he charmed the keys to replay what she had played, the sound reverberating throughout the room. He had looked her, at the way the light from the tall windows fell on her hair and turned it into spun gold, at the way that the room, having looked hauntedly empty and full of shadows for so long, seemed to spring alive in her presence, as though it could sense her _goodness_.

He hesitated for a moment, unsure of himself but then he took Daphne’s hand, and, as he had done at their wedding, guided her around the room in a perfect waltz. He had never been one for flying, but this felt like floating. She had an easy gracefulness about her, and the way she looked at him was a little disarming. Like she could see right through him, like she knew him.

Daphne would never remember at exactly what point she fell in love with Theo, but she would always think of this moment as being a strong contender.

* * *

But then things took a twisted turn, as things are wont to do.


	2. Crescendo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Mistake.

It’s been three days since the wedding. Theodore is in many ways, the ideal husband. He’s polite, he gives her space, respects her privacy… He respects her privacy so much that her room is at the opposite end of the corridor to his. He made it very clear on their wedding night that he didn’t expect her to share his bed, even that her presence wouldn’t be welcome and that’s fine, Daphne is fine with that.

Except she isn’t.

Whenever she enters a room that he’s in, he’s careful to stay out of her way, careful to make sure he doesn’t touch her, and Daphne could cry with frustration. What she wants is his touch, the comfort and reassurance of another body against hers.

Sleeping alone becomes unbearable. At home, she would share a bed with her little sister, under the pretence of chasing the imaginary monsters out from under the bed. Now, though, she wonders if it wasn’t her sister saving her from her own monsters. Nightmares are frequent. She wonders if he can hear.

She wishes he weren’t so noble. She wishes she could just ask for what she wants. But she doesn’t, because that’s not how she was raised. She was born Daphne Greengrass, a Pureblood through and through. So she wears short silk slips with lace cut-outs, makes sure he sees.

But he doesn’t touch her.

Still, Daphne has never been one for an easy surrender.

* * *

 

“Nott,” Riddle commanded, it was a summons.

                “My lord.”

“Malfoy has been at last discovered to be a traitor,” he stared at Theo. This was a test.

                “A traitor,” Theo repeats, inflectionless.

“It is quite the shock,” the Dark Lord continued, in his same emotionless tone. “Of course, I need not tell you the consequences should any one be found to be assisting Malfoy –”

                “Of course.”

Half corpses. Screaming. Blood. So much blood.

“How’s your wife?”

A threat. Very clearly a threat. Theo thought of Daphne. Sweet, innocent Daphne.

                “Most well, thank you my Lord.”

“Let’s keep it that way, shall we?”

* * *

_Present_

She was almost laughing at herself – here she was, shaking and angry, falling apart, scared of her own husband, of the man she’d thought she’d loved, who she’d believed had loved her – and maybe he had. Once. A long time ago.

It didn’t bear thinking about. Her husband was no angel, no knight in shining armour – but he was keeping her alive. He was her protection in this awful world. This world that he was, in part, responsible for creating. This world where she was aristocracy, as she had been before, but at what price?

Screams echoed in her ear every night, some imagined, some real. She didn’t like to think too much about what Theo did to his victims, what Theo did in the Dark Lord’s name – in her name. She was not so stupid as to think he was inviting them over for tea – tea doesn’t explain blood on the floor, the sounds of bones crunching beneath shiny leather shoes, the crying and the begging… Her husband was a monster.

She wondered how he was still sane, how he managed to keep his head with the feel of a body slumping in defeat beneath his hands, with the image of eyes going dead imprinted in his mind. She’d asked him once, how he did it – he’d said it was because he had her, that she was his light in the darkness.

_You know I never touch them like this_ , he’d once told her, as he was kissing her one night whilst she wished she were anywhere but with him.

She used to yearn for his touch, now she dreaded it. She could barely keep from flinching when he rested a hand on her shoulder, an arm around her waist.

She hadn’t been outside in about two years. It was voluntary imprisonment.

Outside you had more monsters, monsters that weren’t so careful or polite as Theo. Those monsters she didn’t know, but Theo she knew like the back of her hand. She knew what made him angry, how he liked his tea (no milk, no sugar), how to calm him down, what made him happy…

She remembered once, when he was in a fitful rage, he’d said, tears running down his face as he thrashed in her arms, his anger dissipating as quickly as it had arrived, that he wished he knew how to make her happy.

“Your happiness,” she’d murmured. “That’s what makes me happy.”

And it did – well not quite happy, maybe – but relieved, certainly. She dreaded the nights after meetings with the Death Eaters because she knew he’d been in a horrible mood, knew he’d be harsh and rude – and maybe five years ago, when there was still hope that Potter would do his bloody job and kill that bastard, she would have been able to deal with it. Her younger self would never let Theo push her around like this, her younger self would still love Theo, would still believe there was good in him.

Her younger self had been vibrant. She could play the piano, she could dance, she knew several languages, she was witty and bright and she had hope.

Somewhere along the line, she’d abandoned all hope of a better life, of a good life. Yes, Theo tried to be good to her, but he wasn’t the man he used to be. She wasn’t the woman she used to be. She still remembered the day he’d asked her to marry him, because he had to choose a bride, because she was the most appealing of a limited selection of suitable ladies.

How could they have known?

* * *

 

“The Dark Lord demands your presence, Mr Nott.”

Theo’s breath sucked in. So this was it. He thought of Daphne as his feet carried him to the chamber downstairs. _Be safe_ , she’d said, as she’d kissed him. _I will_ , he’d promised, reminding himself that it was in fact a promise and not goodbye.

“Nott,” the Dark Lord greeted him with an icy smile, and chills ran over his spine.

First, Theo saw a pile of contorted bones on the floor. Then he realised they were alive. Then he realised who it was. He closed his eyes. _Stupid, Draco. How could you be so stupid?_

“I thought I’d leave the interrogation to you, Nott. I seem to recall you were close friends in your school days.”

There was pure delight on the Dark Lord’s face. Theo forced himself to keep steady. _Be safe_.

“Nott?” the Dark Lord paused at the door, that horrible smile twisting his mouth. “Be sure to clean up after yourself.”

A death sentence. It was a death sentence.

* * *

 

It was late when he got in that night, but she was still awake. She’d kept the candles burning for him, and as he stood frozen outside his bedroom door – _their_ bedroom door – he watched them flicker against the dreary wallpaper that had been plastered there for at least a few hundred years. It was ugly. He hated it.

His heartbeat was thrumming against his ribcage, blood pounding in his ears.

_Theo – Theo, you have to help me – she needs me –_

Stupid, Theo. Stupid.

“Theodore?”

His head snapped up. Daphne was approaching from her end of the corridor. They may share a room but they’d never slept in the same bed. He wouldn’t force that on anyone, least of all her. Her hair looked soft against the glow of the flames, the silk of her lingerie making the candlelight dance. Merlin _fuck_ how was anyone supposed to concentrate when she looked like that? Like a goddess he would worship, who would absolve him –

“I – I’ve done something stupid,” he confessed, unable to meet her eyes.

Stupid, Theo. To risk her life, risk everything –

                “How stupid?” she stepped closer.

“Terminally stupid,” he said, finally permitting himself to make eye contact.

                “That’s a shame,” she was closer to him than she’d ever been. It was disarming, and terrifying. “Though if you plan on making a habit of fatal stupidity then…”

He sucked in a breath. “Then what?”

                “Then I suppose we’ll have to live like there’s no tomorrow.”

And maybe it was because he’d never felt so close to death in his life, never felt so intensely the weak fabric that was holding his life together, maybe that was why when he saw her gaze drop down to his crotch, this time, _this time_ , he didn’t miss it. This was his wife, he reminded himself, his wife who’d been wearing shorter, lacier and racier garments to bed each night and not once – not _once_ – had he seen that for what it was.

He could smell her perfume, a delicate and elusively romantic scent – was it jasmine? No, not jasmine, that was too obvious – and she tugged him closer, pulling at him, raking her fingers through his hair, bringing his lips to meet hers and it was unlike the chaste, short kiss of their wedding day. No, this was desperate, and selfish, and not nearly enough.

“I’ve wanted to do this for a long time,” she murmured against his mouth, her hands moving over his shirt, fighting with the buttons.

He bundled her up in his arms, throwing open the door and nudged her back onto the bed. “Same,” he growled, and she laughed as his breath tickled her neck.

“Can’t think what took us so long…” she mused, divesting him of his shirt and smiling at him appreciatively. “I was really starting to think you didn’t like women –”

                “I like you,” he bit down on her collarbone, drawing her legs around his hips. “In fact, I think I might like you a lot.”

She hissed with restraint as he rubbed against her. “Theodore…”

He drew back from her and shook his head. “Theo,” he corrected. “Call me Theo.”

And she did. Many times.

* * *

 

 

Fingers brushed the back of her neck. She couldn’t help it, she flinched and turned away. Why couldn’t he leave her be? She felt his intake of breath and braced herself – but nothing happened. He was still. Always still.

She peered up through the curtain of her hair to see him with his back to her, looking out of the window, shoulders hunched. She waited. He had something to say.

“Where did I go wrong?” he said at last, slowly turning around. “What happened to us? We were going to be happy, Daphne…”

Something about the sound of his voice, the lost and broken tone, stirred her. It was like they were seventeen again.

“You know everything I do, all of the horrible, horrible things – it’s to keep you safe. You know that don’t you? You know I don’t have a choice…”

He was rambling, his eyes becoming unfocused and she knew the agitation in him was rising, the pressure of survival mounting. _No choice no choice no choice_. This was it. This was the moment where she would embrace him, tell him she understood, that they would get through this. But she didn’t. She could feel the atmosphere turn cold as he stiffened.

“You hate me.”

Nothing.

“I don’t blame you. A lot has changed. I wish this were different, but it’s not Daphne. This is what we have, and I’m trying, Daphne. I’m really fucking trying so if you could just say something, anything –”

                “Theo,” she whispered, and he stopped, as though not expecting her to speak. “We were in love, weren’t we?”

“I think we still can be,” he said, taking her hand and kissing it. “Shall we start again?

Because every day without her was a slow kind of torture, watching her sink inside herself more and more each day. And it was lonely. He’d never had trouble being alone before, had always preferred solitude to the company of others, with their mindless and ignorant chatter, that is until he met her. Until he knew what it was like to be loved by her, to be wanted by her.

And as he saw the glimmer of unshed tears, he vowed to get her back.

* * *

“This is why I came to you first, sir. It would be a terrible shame if it got found out that you didn’t make Malfoy quite as dead as you said…”

Theo grit his teeth together. He loathed blackmail.

        “What’s to stop me from killing you, Rowle?”

Rowle grinned, displaying all of his crooked teeth. “Play nicely, Nott. I can help you find him. Without me, you can’t find Malfoy and when the Dark Lord finds out…” Rowle gave a hollow laugh as Theo blanched. “And besides it seems, sir, that the Mudblood Hermione Granger is also alive.”

        “Granger is dead. She was killed by the Dark Lord himself.”

“The Dark Lord had some trainee Death Eater do it instead – his initiation. Something about torturing her and leaving her to rot – dying slowly and the like. The Death Eater in question is now dead, some accident in Essex  –”

        “How did she survive, Rowle?” Theo growled.

“I think she must have been good at Occlumency, and Legilimency. Confounded that bloke good and proper – he wasn’t right since. They never checked the body either. From what I heard, I think Mr Malfoy helped her.”

        “No doubt,” Theo murmured. “The White Wyvern, you said?”

Rowle smirked.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this will have 3 parts? Who knows?


	3. Diminuendo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The falling.

After their first night together, Theo became withdrawn. He was often away (“Working,” he’d say elusively when she asked) and rarely explained his absences. Daphne could make a reasonable estimation of the nature of Theo’s work for the Dark Lord. He often came home with blood stains on his crisp, white shirts and it gave her chills, sent her right back to Hogwarts. Seventh Year. The Carrows. Final Battle. Astoria – But that was over now. She was safe now.

So she steeled her insides and made herself cold.

The first time the Death Eaters came to dine at Nott Manor, Daphne almost faltered. Almost. One of the younger initiates had failed to procure information on the whereabouts of the Mudblood rebel, Hermione Granger. She had felt the air in the room stiffen as they drew a collective breath. The Dark Lord took a leisurely sip of his wine.

“You have displeased me,” he said. “I do so hate to be displeased.”

She could have sworn she heard a Death Eater give a low chuckle. Her insides turned. Not here. Surely not here.

“I wonder what our radiant hostess would have us do in the face of such ineptitude?” he held out his glass, and she rose from her seat to pour the wine. He didn’t have to click his fingers, she knew an order when she saw one. The Dark Lord liked dinner to be served without magic – nothing quite like a blatant display of hierarchy, after all.

This was a test, an assertion of power. Theo would not meet her eyes.

                “My lord, I would not dare to be so impertinent as to advise you.”

He smirked at her. “Such an obedient little thing, you must be so proud of her, Theodore.”

                “Yes, my lord,” Theo’s stare remained fixed on his lap.

“Our Lady Nott’s good grace has made me inclined to be merciful,” the Dark Lord, set his glass down. “Theodore, would you please do the honour of teaching dear Jeremy that incompetence will simply not be tolerated?”

Theo didn’t flinch. Not as he gripped his wand between his fingers. Not as he wordlessly cast _crucio_. Not as the boy – Jeremy – convulsed where he sat. Not as his flailing limbs knocked his wine off the table and onto the white carpet. Not as his body collapsed from the chair onto the floor. Not as his cries became screams, then whimpers, then silence.

Daphne was frozen to the spot, still holding the bottle of wine. Maybe two years ago, she’d have dropped that bottle. Now she did not. She’d seen too much.

At last, Theo stopped. The boy didn’t move. The Dark Lord seemed satisfied and all Daphne could feel was coiling, burning hatred. Rage simmered in her veins, and, despite the fact that her hands never shook and her face didn’t betray it – her breeding was far too refined for that – the Dark Lord could sense it. Somehow. He looked straight at her, no, straight _through_ her. Straight through her perfect mask, her perfect posture, her perfectly blank mind, and somehow he _saw_. He smiled, inclined his head, and with that the Death Eaters were gone.

“Theo…” she said, turning to him, but he had turned away. She placed a light hand on his shoulder, which he shrugged off as he walked away.

He seemed impervious to her pleas and as they lay in bed that night, him resolutely facing the wall with his back to her, she had never felt so alone.

* * *

 

“You’re going to get yourself killed,” Theo said flatly.

                “Thank you for your vote of confidence, Theo. Truly –”

“I’m not joking,” he scowled, snapping his book shut. “No one leaves alive. You know that.”

                “Then I suppose I shall be the first.”

“This is exactly what I mean,” he sighed, exasperated. “That arrogance of yours –”

                “ – is exactly why I have no shame in asking for your assistance.”

“Draco –”

                “I love her,” he said earnestly.

“Fuck,” Theo muttered, cursing Draco, himself and every god in heaven.

* * *

 

Nothing. Nothing for the longest time. She’d reach for him, try to speak to him, try to reassure him but he was mostly unresponsive. Sometimes he’d snap, push her away, tell her to just _go away, why can’t you leave me alone you damned woman? I don’t need you I hate you why won’t you just leave me alone?_ Sometimes he’d hurl abuse at her, throw things at the walls, tear at his face. Throughout it all, she was patient. She understood, in a way, that this was his means of coping. If he needed somewhere to release all his emotion, all his pain… then she would gladly absorb it.

During that awful year, the one she tried her hardest not to think about, she had similarly railed against Pansy Parkinson, her dearest friend. Which was why Daphne knew rationally that Theo didn’t mean what he was saying – he needed her just as much as she had needed Pansy. Still, the emotional strain of being somebody else’s punching bag was not insignificant.

One day though, one day she had had enough. It wasn’t anything unusual, but she was tired and she felt deeply the emotional pain of neglect and isolation. So she ventured outside, for these were the days when leaving the house was a welcome source of respite. Shopping was a wonderful kind of distraction. It combined all the satisfaction of being amongst beautiful things with a sense of accomplishment – and perhaps by other standards it would be deemed a superficial and vacuous activity lacking any kind of veritable merit intellectually or otherwise, but in Daphne’s mind this was a rather obvious view and entirely uninteresting as an argument. Shopping is often deemed a feminine thing and so it is no wonder that it is ridiculed.

Watching Daphne, you would perhaps notice that shopping requires a certain degree of skill. There was no doubting that she had an eye for style, for when a colour was bold and when it was garish. When a texture was stylish and when it was ugly. When a pattern was a timely revival and when it was simply passé.

Soon, she was able to ease into the rhythm of sifting quickly through racks of clothes, pages of portfolios, fabric samples – and she almost forgot where she was and who she was. Until the assistant in one of the shops had seen her holding a deep emerald satin sample to her cheek.

“We can provide cravats and pocket squares of the same colour, Mrs Nott. I know many couples like to be complementary.”

And then of course she had to remember it all again.

                “Hmm, quite,” she murmured, thinking of her husband sat at home. Would he have noticed her absence? She tried to imagine him even noticing the colour of her dress, let alone express any desire to complement her.

She bought the cravat anyway, leaving with the promise of a new dress to be made and delivered in two weeks – _only the best for you Mrs Nott, we do appreciate your custom!_

When she got home, she arrived with the distinct impression that all was not well. She emerged from the Floo in their front room and wandered down their corridor to the kitchen, her heels clicking softly against the tiles.

When she pushed open the door, she was faced with an eerie silence. The breakfast things she’d left out for him remained untouched, and she couldn’t hear the scratching of his quill against parchment in his study. She almost screamed when she turned and saw Theo, not expecting to see him at all given that he usually avoided her. He looked a little rugged, his eyes a little glassy and unfocused. Lost, she thought, he looked lost.

He pushed something into her hands – a mug of hot tea – and then skulked off to his study next door. From anyone else, the gesture would be merely polite. From Theo, though… Daphne sat down at their table and cried a little.

All may not have been lost.

* * *

 

It’s an official dinner. The Death Eaters are in suits, they smell of overpowering cologne and whisky. Their wives are seated beside them, subdued baubles parcelled up in expensive silks, draped in diamonds and jewels. Daphne is easily the most beautiful woman in the room, Theo thinks. Outwardly, she appears completely at ease as she discusses fine art with murderers, but Theo can feel the strong grip of her hand on his arm. She’s scared, she needs him.

After the dinner, the guests filter into the Ministry’s ballroom. A charming and unbelievably handsome young man with dark hair introduces himself as Tom Riddle. The name is oddly familiar but Theo is slightly inebriated and thinks little of it. He asks Daphne to dance.

Tom Riddle is an excellent dancer. He moves smoothly, expertly, and watching him and Daphne dance together is like witnessing something magical. Theo wonders if this is what Daphne wishes he was. Tom Riddle is the kind of man worthy of a lady like Daphne, he thinks bitterly.

Daphne, meanwhile, feels an inexplicable trickle of panic as Tom Riddle looks into her eyes and smiles.

* * *

 

What Daphne didn’t know was how much Theo actually depended on her. Aside from the practical things (she made sure he ate, made sure that he kept clean, made sure he went to bed every night rather than wallow in his demons until he wasted away), her presence alone gave him a quiet reassurance. In truth, he was terrified by how much he needed her, how much he wanted her, how much he felt like he might love her.

Love had been noticeably absent from his childhood; such were the hazards of growing up in a Death Eater’s household. They said his mother had been beautiful. They said she had been kind. They said that she had loved his father, and that his father had loved her more than anything in the world. It was almost impossible to imagine, that he could have been capable of loving anything. And then of course, she had died and his father had been left with a son who resembled her more and more every day.

He wondered if this was why Daphne’s maternal instincts caused such rage inside him because how could this woman, this woman who barely knew him, show more kindness and more compassion than his own flesh and blood had in twenty years? And there was a part of him that resented Daphne for the way that she was able to calmly sit through his verbal assaults as though they meant nothing. What he wanted was a fight, an argument, something – anything – to show that she cared about him and about their relationship, and not out of a duty-bound commitment to her marital vows or out of a desire to simply survive, but because she felt half as passionately about him as he did about her.

But with this resentment came shame. Shame because he felt he could never be worthy of her love. When she had called his name so softly after he had done something unspeakable right in front of her, all he had felt was shame. Shame that he was weak, shame that he had not been able to protect her from the sight of horrors such as that.

And after resentment and shame came guilt.

Marriage to her was like an exercise in trust – the mug of tea he made for her after she left, doubtless because he had pushed her out, was his assurance to himself that she would come back. After that, things improved. Slowly.

* * *

 

The White Wyvern was hidden in a far corner of Knockturn Alley half-way up a set of narrow stone steps between Markus Scarrs Indelible Tattoos and a pawnbrokers. It was not the sort of place you stumbled upon accidentally.

As Theo pushed the door open, he glimpsed hovering dim orange flames that seem to do little to illuminate the space. It was hard to tell, but the inn looked larger than the exterior suggested. People with hoods pulled over their faces sat around tables with their pint glasses. Some were gambling, some talking in low voices, heads bent together, others had scantily clad women perched on their knees. Nothing out of the ordinary so far.

Theo sat down at the bar. He was anxious and kept one hand on his wand, half expecting someone to assault him at any moment. This was possibly the stupidest thing he had ever done. Someone was probably following him, reporting all of this back to the Dark Lord and once he found out… well that just didn’t bear thinking about.

The barkeeper set a drink down in front of him, which would have startled Theo out of his wits if he hadn’t been so well trained in keeping still.

“Fella over there paid for it,” the man said, already turning away to start on the next drink.

                “What is it?” Theo asked, turning to try and find this mystery man.

“It’s not poisonous if that’s what you’re worried about,” the barkeeper chuckled. “Some fancy thing he called _sanctimonia_.”

Theo felt adrenaline begin to pulse through his veins. This had to be the right place. Or, perhaps it was a very elaborate trap. He felt the presence of someone approaching. Theo tensed, ready to defend himself, to apparate away, and then –

“I heard about Rowle’s promotion. Things really have gone down-hill since I left.”

                “Motherfu–”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Definitely more than 3 parts - thank you for reading and commenting!


	4. Martellato

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Threat.

Getting Daphne back after two long years without her was not a straightforward process. It started easily enough. She’d read him the headlines over breakfast, he’d make scandalously outrageous remarks about the politicians, she’d laugh and the sound would fill him up with a kind of joy he couldn’t quite explain.

She seemed happier.

But she still seemed kind of sad and for a long time he had mistaken her sadness for disappointment. He wanted to do his best by her, so he aimed high and rose through the ranks. He was in many ways the perfect Death Eater. He was obedient, efficient, competent and one of the few the Dark Lord could actually stand to be around – possibly because Theo wasn’t very talkative.

Theo actively sought the Dark Lord’s favour and as his confidence grew along with the violence and horror of his crimes, Daphne seemed to shrink. Shrink smaller in his conscious thoughts, and to shrink physically away from him. At first, he thought it was because of his female victims. Perhaps she had heard the rumours of atrocities that befell these traitorous women who threatened the very order of society. Maybe she suspected him of such grotesque violations – so he made sure that she knew that wasn’t true. That didn’t seem to solve the problem, however.

Soon, he was the one making breakfast, talking at mealtimes, gently caressing her shoulder. She became withdrawn, hardly spoke, hardly left the house, the one who turned away from him when they went to sleep. The bitter irony of the situation was not lost on him.

Then one day, one day things came to a head.

* * *

“Who exactly is Tom Riddle?” Daphne asked after the dinner, slipping off her heels.

Theo’s hands froze where they were undoing the buttons of his shirt. “Tom Riddle?”

“The gentleman we met tonight. I don’t believe I’ve seen him before.”

                “The name seemed familiar…” Theo murmured, continuing to undo his shirt.

“Perhaps you knew his family?” she suggested, wriggling out of her custom emerald satin dress.

                “Unlikely,” Theo said, leaning over to help unhook her corset. “Riddle isn’t a Sacred Twenty-Eight name.”

“Pureblood?” Daphne suggested, pulling on her nightdress.

                “Maybe,” Theo frowned, unconvinced. “Doubt it though.”

“Peculiar,” she mused. “You don’t think the Dark Lord would allow a Half-Blood at a dinner like that?”

                “Perhaps times are changing,” he leant over to kiss his wife, eager to drop the subject.

“Perhaps.”

* * *

 

“You look well.”

                “Fuck you,” Theo scowled.

“And I’m sure I look better than I did the last time we spoke –”

                “You need to be more careful,” Theo interrupted. “Rowle saw you –”

“That’s exactly the point, my friend. Surely you don’t think I’m that stupid – ”

                “I absolutely think you’re that stupid. What on earth do you think you’re doing? Do you have any idea how dangerous this is?”

“Tremendously dangerous, essentially suicidal not to put too finer point on it –”

                “So you let Rowle see you. How did you know he’d come to me and not to _him_?”

“I know Rowle,” Draco shrugged. “Any opportunity for blackmail –”

                “Yes, thank you for that, once again I find myself in mortal peril because of you.”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” he took a sip from Theo’s drink. “I have a plan.”

                “Does it involve survival?”

“Of a kind.”

Theo groaned.

* * *

 

The doorbell rang, and Daphne hurried to open it, thinking it would be Theo, finally home before midnight for once. It was not.

“Mr Riddle, this is unexpected.”

Tom Riddle smiled, holding out a bouquet of white lilies.

                “Forgive the intrusion, Mrs Nott.”

There was a pause and then Daphne blushed, having forgotten her manners.

“Of course, do come in Mr Riddle.”

And he did. She fixed two glasses of wine and they sat in one of the evening parlours. It was rarely used as guests were uncommon. Daphne was silently thankful that today was a good day and she’d made an effort to dress herself and do her hair. She was putting herself back together, piece by piece. It would certainly not do well for an acolyte of the Dark Lord to see her in a state of disarray. There were certain images to be maintained, after all.

“What brings you here, Mr Riddle?”

                “Please, call me Tom. I was visiting a friend and I recalled that my good friends Mr and Mrs Nott lived not too far away.”

“It’s always a pleasure to see you, Tom but I’m afraid Theo is out.”

                “No matter,” Tom raised his glass. “I can only apologise as you shall have to bear the burden of hosting me alone.”

“It’s no burden, Tom.”

                “Charming,” he said softly, and the sound was shudderingly, electrifyingly dangerous.

* * *

 

“How’s Daphne?”

Theo’s head snapped up to attention, pulled out of his contemplative and combative storm of thoughts.

                “Daphne?” he repeated, confused.

“Your wife,” Draco said slowly, as though Theo were stupid. “You never talk about her.”

                “Maybe I want to keep her as separate from you as possible.”

“Are you ashamed of me Theo?” he teased.

                “You’re not even slightly amusing.”

“Seriously though, is everything okay?”

No, Theo thinks, everything is not okay. My wife doesn’t look at me like she used to, I don’t know what’s wrong or how to fix it, I want to tell her the truth because I’m pretty sure she thinks I’m a monster but I can’t because it’s too dangerous. And it’s all your fucking fault Draco, if it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have these unexplained absences and arrive home at three in the morning in yesterday’s clothes - I mean how do you explain that? And at this point it would probably be easier and safer to pretend that I’m having an affair but I don’t want to hurt her and I would never hurt her like that and –

                “Everything’s fine,” Theo shrugged.

“That bad then?”

The bastard always knew.

* * *

 

“Tom was here last night,” Daphne says over breakfast.

Theo almost chokes on his toast.

                “Tom?”

“Riddle. We met him at the Ministry Ball.”

Theo feels the stirrings of something disconcerting in his stomach.           

“What did he want?”

“He said he was in the area and wanted to pay us a visit, I told him you were out,” here she looked at him purposefully, “and we drank some wine and then he left.”

                “Was that all?”

“My goodness what do you take me for, Theo,” Daphne chided him, clearing the plates. “Tom Riddle is a perfect gentleman.”

A perfect gentleman, Theo thinks, Tom Riddle most certainly is not.

* * *

 

Tom Riddle becomes something of a frequent caller at Nott Manor. Mr Nott is often out, seems to always be out, and Daphne is lonely. She misses her husband, she misses her friends – some of whom are now dead, some trapped in marriages with little freedom – and Tom’s company is nice. He always brings flowers, he asks her about her day, he prompts her with questions even though her day is usually rather dull, he asks about her past – something no one wants to talk about – endless questions about what life used to be like, about Hogwarts, growing up, her experiences of the war…

It’s wonderfully refreshing to have someone like him who listens, understands and is sympathetic. The days before are a painful topic – so many lives lost, so much pain, so much terror. Theo simply isn’t around enough for her to be able to talk to him like this, that and Theo is definitely hiding something from her. Which is irksome, and one of the reasons she dislikes leaving the house so much and seeing the other Death Eater ladies giggle as she passes, as though they _know_ – what exactly, Daphne isn’t sure – but they clearly know something and being kept in the dark is extremely frustrating. Was it another woman? A man? Drugs?

Fortunately, Tom is usually there to accompany her on trips into town. He offers her his arm, holds open the door, offers supportive comments during shopping trips and always seems to have scandalous gossip on whoever they happen to run into. He was like a mine full of secrets. No wonder the Dark Lord values him so highly.

Tom speaks little of his past, but he does tell her that he never knew his parents, that he grew up in an orphanage in the Muggle world, that for so long he thought he was some kind of freak until the day he was adopted by a childless magical couple and taken to a Wizarding school overseas. He came to Britain not long ago, to join the Dark Lord’s ranks. Daphne thinks Tom is brave, her heart aches for the frightened little boy of his past, and she admires his strength, his intelligence, his ambition.

Sometimes, though, he is unsettling. Daphne has walked in on him casually flipping through the books in the Nott library – which is mostly filled with ancient manuals in death and destruction – more than once. Of course, he is welcome anytime, but it still strikes her as a little odd.

He’s completely fascinated by the history of the Death Eaters, and especially by Harry Potter. Daphne doesn’t want to talk about that, hates talking about that, and the first time Tom asked she was shocked. No one spoke of Harry Potter. The very name was dangerous. She reminded herself that he didn’t know not to ask, that he’s still new to this world.

“Don’t they say he’s still alive?” Tom flipped through a collection of Albanian maps, not looking at her.

                “Who?” Daphne frowned, though she was sure she knew.

“Harry Potter,” Tom said flippantly as though the name meant nothing.

                “I don’t see how he could be – the Dark Lord killed him,” Daphne said carefully.

“Of course,” Tom agreed, and then, changing tack: “What about the Order?”

                “The resistance movement? All dead. There was a campaign after the war, to bring them to justice –”

“Some people defected, didn’t they? Like that Malfoy boy… what was his name?”

                “Draco,” Daphne swallowed painfully. “Draco Malfoy.”

“That’s it,” Tom nodded. “Went after some girl he fell in love with… your husband killed him, didn’t he?”

Daphne shut her eyes. “Yes, he did.”

She remembered that night, when he had come home, and they had had sex for the first time. She blushed.

“Childhood friends, weren’t they?”

Tom’s voice summoned her back to the present.

                “A long time ago,” Daphne tried ferociously not to let her mind slip into emotion she’d repressed for all this time. Now was neither the time nor the place. She owed it to Theo, after all, to be strong.

“It must have been difficult,” Tom offered, though something in his eyes was ever so slightly off.

                “It was,” Daphne managed at last.

 Her head hurt. It always did after a few hours with Tom. He just asked so many questions. She was probably tired; she hadn’t been sleeping well. Tonight, she’d take a Sleeping Draught. Then she’d feel better.

* * *

 

Daphne was having one of her worst days. Theo had missed their anniversary dinner, had sent some rushed and scrawled message with his apologies via owl – _something’s just come up, I’m so sorry_ – and Daphne had drunk first a glass and then the whole bottle of wine she’d gone out and bought especially for their anniversary because it was Theo’s favourite, and it had laurel leaves embossed in gold on the label and he would always joke that it was made especially for her and Merlin she needed another glass of something.

She’d sent an owl to Tom, asking him if he wanted to go out to dinner because she already had a reservation and her hair was all prettily braided and twisted with pearls and her dress looked amazing and it would be a shame to have gone to all this trouble for nothing. Tom, darling that he is, agrees.

She doesn’t care romantically for Tom of course, but a spiteful splinter in her heart that has been growing and growing over the last few weeks really wants Theo to see a photograph of the two of them out to dinner. Let him worry the same way she does, feel just as hurt, just as betrayed as she does. Or worse, he wouldn’t even care. Why would he, after all?

Tom was sympathetic, he listened as she recounted what had happened and he seemed gratifyingly angry on her behalf. He said she deserved better, that she shouldn’t have to put up with him, and didn’t Theodore know how lucky he was to have an angel like her for a wife?

Daphne reddened guiltily at that because she’s anything but angelic. Sometimes she’s actively cruel, like tonight. Theo works hard. Theo protects her.

“We ought not to be so hard on him.”

“I’m no harder on him than he deserves,” Tom scoffed. “It must bother you that he’s out so late, so frequently. You can’t possibly be so naïve as to think –”

“He always comes back,” she interrupted, not wanting to hear Tom say out loud her greatest Theo-related anxiety.

“Don’t you think you deserve more than a man who simply returns home every once in a while? He should cherish every moment with you. You shouldn’t be left to wonder where he is, and with whom or what he’s doing. He takes you for granted –”

                “I love him,” Daphne said simply. Firmly. That much, at least, was true. “And he loves me.”

“And you are still unhappy. Love is easy and fleeting,” Tom said dismissively. “If I were you, Daphne, I’d settle for nothing less than worship.”

Tom was sweet to be concerned, Daphne thought. Sometimes she felt he was her only friend in all the world. Pansy’s occasional owls seemed to have stopped completely – Tom assured her that Pansy was likely only jealous of how close they had become recently. After her third owl had received no reply, Daphne had given up. So her oldest and dearest friend had no time for her, what did she care? She had Tom, didn’t she?

* * *

 

They were sat eating dinner. It was one of the rare nights that Theo was home early. He had a proper Ministry job now, head of a department with people working under him, as well as some stuff on the side for the Dark Lord. Not that the Dark Lord doesn’t own the Ministry, because he does. Daphne is all too aware of how much control the Dark Lord exercises over her husband, over her.

Theo looked angry. Not visibly, not furiously, but she could tell that something was simmering under the surface. And by now she knew enough about Theo to not let him fume slowly and silently.

“Theo…” she began hesitantly. “I know you’re very stressed at work and you’re under a lot of pressure, but clearly something is bothering you, and I just want to help.”

                Theo snorted.

Daphne sighed, exasperated already. “You could at least try, Theo. I’m trying to make an effort but you’re making it very difficult when you won’t tell me what’s wrong.”

                “Nothing’s wrong.”

“Bullshit! What is it? Is it Tom?”

                “Tom,” Theo narrowed his eyes. “Why would it be Tom?”

“Oh come on, Theo, you’ve never liked him –”

                “Yeah, you’re right,” Theo set down his knife and fork. “I _don’t_ like him. I don’t like that he’s here all the time, going through our things, bringing you flowers –”

“And I don’t like that you’re never here Theo! You leave me here alone –”

                “What, so now it’s my fault handsome boy-wonder Tom Riddle has decided to ingratiate himself with my wife? You don’t think it’s a little improper for someone that ridiculously attractive to be spending so much time alone with a young woman?”

“I have always been faithful to you, Theo, and Tom has been a dear friend to me –”

                “And is friendship all he has in mind?”

“If you don’t like it Theo, then do something about it,” she challenged, feeling angry tears prick at her eyes. “If you’re jealous, then _do_ something –”

                “Like what? Tell the Dark Lord’s latest protégé that he can go fuck himself?”

“That - or be here sometimes.”

                “Daphne…”

“It hurts, Theo. It hurts that you’re staying out late and you don’t explain why. Is it me? Is there somebody else? Another woman? A man?”

                “Merlin fuck no, it’s nothing like that.”

“Then what is it like? Why don’t you trust me?”

                “It’s not about trust, Daphne, I’m trying to protect you –”

“From what? From the life that I’ve chosen? I chose to be here with you, to stand by your side for better or for worse but honestly Theo these days it’s like you’re some stranger I live with. I thought we were the same – that serving the Dark Lord was for _survival_ but Theo, you just got closer and closer to them, further from me and it was like you agreed with them, like you _wanted_ to –”

                “You think I’m an ideological Death Eater?” he stared at her, incredulous.

“You’re not?” she frowned.

                “I thought that was clear. I basically told you –”

“You did not! You volunteer for missions for the Dark Lord, how else am I supposed to interpret that?”

                “As survival.”

“Survival is one thing, actively volunteering is another –”

                “I had to, Daphne. Look you don’t understand, and I can’t explain but I had to. He couldn’t suspect me, he had to trust me completely especially after Draco –”

“Draco? What about Draco? He’s dead.”

Daphne was looking at him so earnestly, and Theo cursed every god in heaven. This was a terrible mistake.

                “Yeah, about that…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your kind comments and for taking the time to read this! :)


	5. Sostenuto

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Realisation.

“I told her.”

They’re in an undisclosed location. Theo knows it’s some kind of forest. They organise meeting points via coordinates received through a coin, specially charmed by Hermione Granger herself.

                “Daphne?” Draco doesn’t look surprised.

Theo nods.

                “What did she say?”

“She wants to help.”

Draco looked smug. Jammy bastard.

* * *

 

Daphne was sat with Tom in the Nott library, a common enough occurrence. What was slightly less common was that Daphne was also pouring over the books. Tom raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

“You seem cheerful,” he remarked, and Daphne looked up, her eyebrows furrowed in concentration.

                “Hmm? Cheerful? Yes, I suppose I am.”

“Any particular reason for your sudden transformation?”

                “Oh, nothing in particular,” she murmured, distracted.

“Nothing to do with that husband of yours I suppose?”

Daphne was unable to prevent a blush, thinking back to the night before, after Theo’s confession. The relief, the fear, the _understanding_ that she had been searching for finally satisfied. The way his skin had felt pressed against hers, the overwhelming feeling of intimacy and complete trust that she’d been yearning for.

“Ah,” Tom sighed, knowingly. “He came home for once, did he?”

                “He might have done,” Daphne smiled.

“I suppose he apologised as he was undressing you –”

                “Tom!” Daphne admonished. “That’s unfair.”

“Isn’t that what he usually does? Show up, say pretty things, fuck you and then fuck off again?”

                “That’s – no, Tom you go too far. You make it sound so… twisted. You twist things all around.”

He just didn’t understand, and she couldn’t explain. She’d promised Theo she wouldn’t, he didn’t trust Tom one bit which was understandable, and a little endearing. Besides, she wouldn’t tell him anyway, not when he was in one of his moods which he was clearly in today. He could be cruel sometimes.

“Daphne,” he said, his eyes meeting hers. “I’m sorry I offended you, but surely you don’t really think he _loves_ you?”

She felt a headache coming on. Being around Tom was so mentally draining sometimes. And though she knew Tom was just being jealous or whatever stupid thing it was that made him act out and say things like that whenever Theo was home or whenever she was actually _happy_ (and the two usually coincided), it did pick at her insecurities. It lodged in her brain and slowly gnawed away at her but she was determined not to let it. She settled her mind just as her father had taught her to, choosing to ignore the steady pressure on her temples.

Tom wasn’t right about everything.

* * *

 

It’s was a dreary Wednesday morning when Daphne saw Pansy Parkinson of all people in the secluded antiques shop that she and Tom favoured for its absence of sneering aristocrats. That is, until one of these sneering aristocrats appeared. Tom had become deeply engrossed in some extremely uninteresting and very ugly pendant locket and was consequently distracted. Daphne would have let it be – Pansy had been ignoring _her_ after all – but ultimately decided that she’d try one last time to reach out.

“Hello Pansy.”

Pansy startled, and turned around, shocked and then her shock turned very quickly anger in a way that only Pansy could do.

                “Daphne,” she said in a clipped voice, aggressively sorting through a mass of entangled necklaces.

“How are you?” Daphne attempted, refusing to be deterred so easily. “I haven’t heard from you in a while.”

                “I wonder why.”

“Well I was hoping you could tell me,” Daphne huffed crossly. “Seeing as you’ve been ignoring my owls.”

                “Owls?” Pansy frowned, confused.

“Yes, owls. They have feathers and claws and carry letters.”

                “I know what an owl is –”

“Why didn’t you write back? Did I do something? Is it because of Tom? Because –”

                “Daph,” Pansy said in a low voice, looking around quickly before casting a silencing charm. “I never got any of your owls, and as for your new friend Tom Riddle –”

“Daphne?” Tom called, looking around and spotting the two of them together.

Pansy grabbed Daphne’s hands. “Be careful who you trust.”

“Pans, I don’t –”

                “Daphne? Are you ready to leave?”

Daphne looked behind her to where Tom was waiting, he was looking suspiciously at the two of them, and she supposed it was an odd sight, especially given that Tom knew how Pansy had been ignoring her, or perhaps hadn’t been… but as Daphne looked back to say goodbye, Pansy had already vanished.

“Yes, Tom, I… I was just catching up with an old friend.”

                “Charming,” Tom said, offering his arm as they left the shop.

* * *

 

“Daphne dug up some old records on horcruxes. It’s some creepy shit.”

Hermione Granger, brightest witch of her age herself, scanned the notes Theo offered her. Draco brought round the tea.

                “She’s much better at research than you,” Hermione said bluntly, taking her mug from Draco who kissed her lightly on the cheek.

“You wound me, Granger but she’s my wife so I’ll allow it. She’s an intelligent lady, what possessed her to stick with me I’ll never know –”

                “Money?” Draco suggested playfully. “Can’t have been your good looks after all.”

“She likes her silks I’ll give you that, especially since she’s been hanging around with that Tom Riddle. He may have reasonable fashion taste, but I cannot stand the man.”

Hermione went deadly pale and her mug slipped from her fingers.

“Fuck! Bloody hell Granger, watch it would you?” Theo hissed, waving his wand at his arm, now covered in hot tea.

“Did - did you say Tom Riddle?”

                “Yeah, why? Know the guy?”

“Funnily enough,” she said, in a tone that was anything but humorous, “I do.”

* * *

 

It was the 2nd May, 2003. Five years after the Battle of Hogwarts. After Astoria. Death Eaters. Green Light. Daphne was good at distracting herself for the most part, but days like this were like a loaded gun. Never did loss feel more tangible than on the anniversary of the end of it all. There was bunting and celebrations in honour of the great victory… but celebrating is hard when everyone you love is dead. Or almost everyone.

She remembered the first anniversary, not long after she’d married Theo, how she’d returned to Greengrass Manor and sat by the gravestones of the adjoining cemetery with her father, how they’d held each other together whilst everything else was falling apart. That had been the last time she’d gone to Greengrass Manor. After her father had fallen ill, the house was taken to settle the debts he had left behind. He never had been good at housekeeping.

She didn’t remember it all that well. Those years, despite their recency, seemed hazy in twilight, just a mass of loss after loss, grief and loneliness. That had been when Theo had started staying out late, torturing people in their house. Needless to say, it hadn’t helped.

But she was stronger now, and certainly not alone.

The journey to the old cemetery was eerie in a way only what is known of old and long familiar can be. She remembered running up these paths as a little girl with her posies of meadow flowers – one for grandmother, one for grandfather and one for mama. Before the war, there had been fresh flowers every day and the cemetery had been kept in immaculate condition. Now, though, now it was overgrown with moss and ivy and the willow tree’s leaves draped low, casting the ground in shadow.

Centuries of Greengrasses had been buried here, in view of the sloping hills and meadowland that stretched for acres beyond the estate. Rows of headstones, generation after generation… and then there were their names: _ALTHEA GREENGRASS NÉE SELWYN, beloved wife and mother;_ _GEORGE GREENGRASS, dearest husband and father;_ _ASTORIA GREENGRASS, much loved daughter and sister_.

“You never told me that you’re an orphan,” came a voice behind her. She jumped violently, turning around and heaving a sigh of relief when she saw who it was.

                “Holy shit, Tom, you scared me,” Daphne said, one hand on her heart that felt ready to beat straight out of her chest.

“Sorry,” he smiled, leaning against the low stone wall. Miraculously, it didn’t crumble to dust.

                “How’d you find me here?”

“Well you weren’t at home, then I realised what day it was, and I figured you’d be in a graveyard somewhere. Seems as though that’s where everyone is today. Thought I’d try your childhood home and voila.”

Daphne turned back to the gravestones. A lot of people would be at huge mass graves today, others outside long lists of names carved into stone for the bodies that were never found. War was a terrible thing.

“Everyone becomes an orphan eventually, Tom,” she said at last. “It wasn’t like how it was for you.”

                “What was it like?”

“Well…”  she wondered how to talk about it. She’d never had to before now. “An ancestor of our family had a blood curse that we’ve all inherited. My mother was ill after she had me, but she recovered. After Astoria, though… she died when I was five.”

                “And your father?”

“He grew older, and there was the war and my mother, and then my sister. I think when illness came it was easy for him to go with it.”

                “And –”

“My sister was sixteen and she was caught in the crossfire at the Battle of Hogwarts,” her voice had hardened. “I saw it happen.”

Tom said nothing.

She wondered if he understood the gravity of what she had told him – what she had never told anyone before. And indeed, why would she? There was no Wizarding family in Britain untouched by war. Her story was hardly unusual. And there were people who had it far worse than she did – Theo, for example, whose father had been cruel and who thankfully Daphne had never met, nor would she ever. And there was Tom, of course, who had never known love or family, until he’d moved away and found Wizarding society.

It was painful to remember, so most of the time she didn’t. She’d always had a talent for keeping her mind perfectly blank, for compartmentalising and repressing. Her nightmares were a different story, but who didn’t have those?

It’s at night when the demons come, after all.

* * *

 

Tom was out that day, which happened rarely and Daphne found herself sitting awkwardly in the day parlour at a loss for what to do with herself. She picked up her knitting needles, because what else was there to do really, and was halfway through a delightful matching hat and mittens set when the door opened.

“Tom?” Daphne guessed, setting down her needles and walking to the foyer. “Theo,” she beamed brightly when she saw him instead.

She rushed towards him and was about to fling her arms around him and kiss him when something in his expression made her grind to a halt.

“Theo?” she said haltingly, unsure. “Is everything alright?”

                “Are you alone?”

“Yes, Tom’s out for the day. Why? Did you want to get some lunch? Have you eaten?”

                “Lunch sounds fine,” he tried to smile, and the failed effort sent alarm bells ringing in her head.

“Theo –”

                “I’ll explain later,” he promised, ushering her out of the door.

Once they got to the bistro, he cast a silencing charm and passed her a piece of paper. It was a cutting from an old book, most likely a cursed one if the way the edges kept trying to cut at her fingers was any indicator, but there were neat annotations in the margins, and they certainly weren’t Theo’s.

“Now the less you know the safer you’ll be,” Theo warned, “but you need to know this. So Gladys –” Daphne rolled her eyes at the cover name. “ – knows a thing or two about… you-know-what, and it turns out that the piece that you make, when you split yourself, doesn’t have to remain trapped in whatever it’s trapped in. If the piece can gain strength somehow, and then take a life, it can become corporeal and alive. Like a real human person.”

Here he looked at her purposefully, as though she’d naturally fill in the blank. She stared back, clueless.

“When the Dark Lord was seventeen, he split himself for the first time and that piece lodged itself in a diary, his diary. The diary went missing before it could be destroyed by the rebels and was never seen again. Until now.”

Another pause. Daphne huffed impatiently, gesturing for him to get on with it.

“Well Gladys happens to know a lot about this diary, and one of the things she said was that it belonged to someone named Tom Marvolo Riddle.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all of your support, it means so much! :)

**Author's Note:**

> Not sure how many parts this will be because I'm not good at planning ahead, but I do have an idea of where this is going. Hope you will bear with me :)


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